Chapter 17
Soren
My neck hurts from where I slept on the couch.
I pop upright. I wasn’t supposed to fall asleep.
I was supposed to be protecting the girls while also looking for the painting, but it was so late, and I was exhausted.
I sat down to watch Jaws for five minutes and…
apparently the movie is like melatonin. Hmm.
That’s something I’ll have to dissect later with my therapist.
My eyes land on Maya and Bella, cuddled on their own couches perpendicular to each other, fast asleep.
I rub a hand over my face, attempting to erase the fatigue and this mess. The mindless motion does neither.
I slip from the room and pull out my phone. It’s nine a.m. Christmas morning, and nothing greets me but a blank lock screen.
It’s been hours since Rosie’s last message.
I don’t know whether to be relieved or frustrated. The longer I stay here, the longer I want to. But I can’t. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not welcome here. Staying wasn’t part of my plan.
Then again, being here for Christmas wasn’t Maya’s plan either.
I lean against the wall, and my elbow bumps a light switch.
The wall gives, opening into a small room.
I flick on the light. There’s a large twisted oak tree next to a fake stone fireplace and a maroon velvet chair.
A small shelf holds tiny knickknacks like teacups and handmade candles.
It’s a Hobbit-hole. Not a well-used one, judging by the dust on the chair and fake leaves of the tree. This room could come in handy later.
I step back out, ensuring the false door is securely closed, then head to the bathroom to change out of my pink ensemble.
The thief didn’t come back last night, but just to be safe, I search the penthouse, ensuring every door is still locked… and maybe looking in a few more spots for the painting. Maya said she’ll give it to me if I keep them safe, but if she changes her mind, I want to know where it is.
I crack open the door to her room, but stop, stricken by her words from last night.
She thinks it was easy for me to leave her, but it wasn’t.
My parents being arrested was hard, but missing her?
I got so depressed Rosie insisted I see a therapist, and I knew if I didn’t work through everything, the state would take custody of her.
I had a lot to deal with, and I’m still working through things.
Or maybe it’s just nice to have someone other than my sister to talk to.
Someone forced to listen but paid enough not to say every thought that comes to their head.
I scan Maya's room from the threshold, but there’s nothing in this room that could remotely hold a 30x40-inch painting.
I can see under the bed and behind the dresser.
I notice her poster is missing from the bed, but I can’t justify invading her privacy to look for something as silly as the Jonas Brothers.
I shut the door and head downstairs.
I never want to play hide-and-seek with Maya again.
Giving up, I wander to the kitchen, avoiding the walkway between two counters where the flour and dry noodles and other baking ingredients decorate the floor and now the edge of the counter.
The family must have a private chef, because there are ingredients for just about everything in the world.
Someone who enjoys cooking spends time in this kitchen, and I don’t think the Hartwells are ever home long enough to do so.
Everything is labeled and well placed, and I find what I need quickly. Except for the real sugar.
Only when I’m mixing the batter do I realize what I’ve made.
I freeze with my hand on the piping bag ready to fill it.
These were the only good parts of Christmas at our house.
The only tradition we ever had, started by my grandmother and continued by me after her death.
Dozens of memories war up, some bad, some not so bad.
My parents were always at work, even on Christmas. Criminals never take a break.
I fill the bag, convincing myself it’s time to rewrite the bad memories with some good. Then I cut the fruit while the oil heats to the correct temperature.
Almost like magic, two sleepy-eyed girls emerge the second I plate the first meal.
“Merry Christmas, ladies.”
“What’s that smell?” Arabella leans over the counter and pushes her disheveled braids away from her face to get a better look.
“Funnel cake for breakfast?” Maya asks, obvious judgment written on her arched brow.
I push the plate to Bella and point the tongs at Maya. “If you complain, you don’t get any.”
She bites her lip, throwing both hands to the sky.
“No complaints here,” she says, but then adds a few more pieces of fruit to Arabella’s plate.
The little girl pushes them away with her fork then stabs the funnel cake, bringing the entire thing to her mouth to take a bite, dripping fruit sauce and the monk fruit sweetener—the closest thing I could find to powdered sugar—all over the counter and her chin.
“This is the best food in the whole world!” she says around a mouthful.
“It can’t be that good,” Maya says jokingly as she takes the plate I just loaded for her.
But one bite in, and she moans with delight. “How did you make this with all the healthy crap?”
“I got creative.” I shrug, watching out of the corner of my eye as she takes another bite, larger and messier than the last. She attempts to hide the white powder on her chin, but I see it. I’m all too aware of her.
Arabella finishes her food and jumps down from the counter, running to the Christmas festival in the living room. The bounce house immediately inflates, and water splashes. I swear that girl can be in two places at once when it comes to making a mess.
I cook myself a funnel cake, adding some chocolate sauce I made to top it off. I may have found someone’s secret stash of chocolate in the wheat bin.
Maya rounds the counter with a now-empty plate and sees what I’m hiding.
“Hey, why didn’t I get chocolate?” she asks, an almost flirtatious tone to her voice.
“You can’t have that much sugar in the morning.” I smirk, and in a moment of utter humiliation, I boop her on the nose. Like a child.
Shock, then amusement dances in her eyes, entrancing me. She lifts her fork, cutting a bite of my funnel cake. I watch her slowly raise it to her lips, and then she blows.
A cloud of monk fruit sweetener hits my face. I pull back, rubbing my eyes. “Do you intend to start a war?”
“We're already in one. What’s one more?”
I grab the bag of monk fruit sweetener and shake.
Maya screams as the white dust coats her hair.
“I win.”
Wrong thing to say. The beauty in front of me grabs the bottle of strawberry syrup and squeezes.
It pelts me square in the chest.
I look at my, once again, ruined shirt, then back up at her. “Be honest, has all of this fighting been an elaborate ruse to get me to take my shirt off?”
Red splotches appear on her cheeks, and she sprays me again. “No!”
“All you have to do is ask.” My voice drops to a rough timbre. “We aren’t kids anymore, Perry.”
Something about that statement ignites a flame in her eyes, shifting this moment from fun to dangerous.
“Really? Because it seems like you still have some growing up to do.” She slaps a hand on the counter where she grabs an egg from the carton I left out.
I know how to read a room for potential threats, and right now there is a giant neon sign screaming at me to get out of here. “You seem upset.” I take a step back, but she follows.
“Oh, now you can read my emotions? That would have been helpful eight years ago.”
“You’re still hung up on me,” I say, matter-of-factly. I immediately regret it as the egg mixes with the strawberry on my chest.
Too bad there’s no back arrow to delete unfortunate conversations. There’s only forward, through all the mistakes.
“I’m mad at you!” This phrase is punctuated with a spray from the bottle of chocolate sauce.
It hits my mouth and cheek. I lick the corners of my lips.
I’m turning into quite the dessert. “Aren’t you going to say anything?
Explain yourself?” she asks, holding the bottle like a weapon. “Don’t I deserve that much?”
She wants me to explain now? “I… can’t.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?” All playfulness is gone from her eyes.
Is she calling me a coward? That’s what I felt like that night.
I still feel like that.
They are words; all I have to do is say them.
She sighs and takes a step back, shaking out her hair, the fight disappearing. “It’s not like it matters. It was forever ago, and like you said, we were kids.”
She’s giving me an out. It’s good of her. But after what I did, she deserves at least part of the truth.
“It’s not like we were actually going to run away together.” Her voice is barely a whisper.
That.
That statement drags me back to the summer of senior year. To the last time I truly wanted something. Wanted her.
Most surprising of all, she wanted me, too. How can she think I didn’t mean it?
I never wanted anything more.
“I bought tickets to California.” The words escape my lips, a confession never uttered.
Her body stills, and she looks at me, really looks at me. She opens her mouth, but no words come out. Her chin quivers, and she blinks to ward off the wetness in her eyes.
“I—”
My next confession is cut off when I’m hit in the cheek so hard I feel like I’ve been shot.
“Nerf war!” Bella screams, raising her gun in the air with a hoot.
If only she had started this two minutes ago.